Rainy morning reflections: last day in Bruges

I woke up to the sound of raindrops tapping against my hotel window. The forecast had warned me, but there's something about rain in medieval cities that feels appropriate rather than disappointing. Lying in bed, I watched the water trails race down the glass, each droplet choosing its own path—much like travelers, I suppose.

Today marks my last day in Bruges. Five days have passed quickly, and tomorrow I'll be moving on. There's always a bittersweetness to these transitions. Part of me wants to stay longer, to discover more hidden corners and quiet moments, but another part feels that familiar pull toward what's next.

After a leisurely breakfast at the hotel, I decided to brave the rain for one final walk through the city center. The cobblestones glistened under the gray sky, and the usually crowded streets were relatively empty. Tourist numbers had thinned considerably, with many seeking refuge in cafés and museums.

I made my way to Minnewater Park again, arriving just after 10:00. The rain had softened to a gentle drizzle by then, and I found a sheltered spot under a massive weeping willow to sit and watch the water. The lake's surface danced with countless tiny ripples, each raindrop creating its own momentary universe of concentric circles. The ducks seemed entirely unbothered, going about their morning business with admirable indifference to the weather.

There's something meditative about watching rain fall on water. I stayed for nearly half an hour, taking it all in. Twenty-five days into this journey, I'm beginning to understand the rhythm of long-term travel—the importance of these quiet moments amidst the movement, the balance between exploration and stillness.

As I walked back toward the city center, I found myself mentally cataloging the experiences of the past few days: the breathtaking view from the Belfry, the serene boat ride through the canals, the profound stillness of the Groeningemuseum, the rich flavors of Belgian chocolate and waffles, conversations with locals like Henri. Each memory already feels like a treasure I'm carefully packing away.

The rain picked up again around 11:30, so I ducked into a small café near Markt Square. Ordering a hot chocolate seemed appropriate—one last Belgian indulgence. The warmth of the cup against my palms was comforting as I watched people hurry past outside, hunched under umbrellas and raincoats.

I've spent the last hour here in this cozy corner, reflecting on Bruges and what comes next. My train leaves tomorrow morning, and I still haven't decided where I'm heading. Berlin has been on my mind, but so has Paris. Perhaps I'll decide at the station—there's a certain freedom in that uncertainty that I'm growing to appreciate more each day.

The rain shows no sign of letting up. According to my weather app, it might continue through tomorrow. I'll need to pack carefully to keep everything dry. For now, though, I'm content to sit here a little longer, watching the rain transform Bruges into a watercolor painting, soft edges blurring into one another.

Four hundred and seventy-five days remain on this journey. Sometimes that number feels enormous, other times impossibly small for all I hope to see and experience. But right now, in this moment, with rain falling on ancient stones outside and the rich scent of chocolate rising from my cup, time feels beautifully suspended.

!Raindrops on a café window with blurred view of medieval buildings beyond A rainy farewell to Bruges through café glass